


That Horizon Which One Beholds

by SincereMercy



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Doesn't feature majorly but it is there, Don't copy to another site, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, July Revolution, M/M, Printer Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereMercy/pseuds/SincereMercy
Summary: Combeferre experiences the grotesque and the sublime of the July Revolution.





	1. 27 July 1830

**Author's Note:**

> There is some violence in this chapter but the "graphic depictions of violence" tag is really meant for the next one. Thanks to Ceci for encouraging me to post this first half.

Combeferre was just returning from observing an operation when he noticed that he’d been beaten to his own door by a skinny little boy no older than 10, who was banging incessantly on the door and, Combeferre was certain, drawing the ire of his fellow interns. “Here I am,” he said, arching a brow. “How did you even get in here?”

The boy, who had a cheerful expression on his face, stopped pounding on the door and greeted Combeferre with a salute. “Dispatch for you, Citizen Combeferre! A blonde fellow called Enjolras says to tell you it’s happening.”

“What is happening?”

“The revolt, obviously!”

For the first time, Combeferre perceived the pistol the boy had clutched in his other hand, which he was now waving around, and felt his stomach sink. “That is an instrument of death, not a child’s toy.”

The boy looked him up and down. “I came to deliver a message, not to receive one. Well?” He held out his other hand for a coin.

Combeferre frowned, but relented. “I’ll have your fee in a moment. Enjolras sent from where?”

“They are building a barricade on Rue de la Monnaie.”

“Very well.” He let himself into the apartment, returning with a franc for the boy. “But you must be careful.”

“Be careful yourself.” Taking the coin with a satisfied expression, the gamin looked him in the eye for a moment and then smiled again. “Don’t be so unhappy, citizen. Who knows, you may be a free man tomorrow.” Then he was gone.

While Combeferre couldn’t find it in him to be pleased to hear there was violence, he did rally his determination, dressed in something more suitable, and gathered up his bag and his rifle. Enjolras called, he would answer. Still, how odd it felt to be dressed for war, so to speak, on his own rather quiet street. He noted a few disturbed looks from passers-by and hurried by self-consciously.

Yet this didn’t last long. Soon he fell into a throng of people, a chaotic mess of sound and motion from which he could only make out snatches of conversation, and the occasional shout of _Vive la charte, down with Polignac !_ A gunshot; a burst of conflicting information: “They’re fighting in front of the Palais Royal,” said one man. From another, “No, it is only a warning shot, they are trying to disperse the crowd in front of the gunpowder factory.”

But Combeferre, fearing the worst, quickened his pace, ducking into side-streets, dodging the patrol, until at last he reached the Rue de la Monnaie, where he was greeted by an unfamiliar face and the barrel of a rifle.

“ _Qui vive?”_

Before he could answer, another man pushed the rifle aside. “Idiot, don’t point your weapon without cause.” Then, to Combeferre: “But who are you?”

He had scarcely pronounced the words, “A doctor”—mentally adding _sort of_ —when at last he heard a voice he knew.

“That is Combeferre!” Enjolras ascended the barricade with a few energetic steps, extending a hand as if he might grasp Combeferre’s from a distance. “Combeferre. It is good you’ve come; I was beginning to think I would be the only one here.” In the not-yet-twilight, from this vantage-point, Combeferre was struck by the thought that perhaps if he accepted that hand, Enjolras might take flight and deliver him … to where? Heaven? Or the Republic?

“What happened? The others have not…?”

Enjolras shook his head. “It has all come about very suddenly; we’ve had no time to prepare. The police came this morning to shut down the printshop and we have been in the streets since then. Joly and Prouvaire can’t come; they have both left Paris recently on account of the heat. The rest? I don’t know. Perhaps they are caught up elsewhere. And perhaps we will meet them tonight, or tomorrow.”

At last Combeferre ascended the barricade, with a bit of assistance from Enjolras, who he now realized was still wearing his apron. “And now…?”

“And for now we are taking position here. We need more arms and more gunpowder. I have heard the former National Guard have been organising themselves, and we’re expecting some reinforcement from them. Then we will take the Hôtel de Ville.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow, more likely.”

Combeferre raised his eyebrows; Enjolras did not seem at all uncertain of what he was outlining. “Is there a leader here?” he asked.

Enjolras lay his hand on his shoulder, drawing him a little to the side. “No. Just us.” He shrugged. “It is a little disorganized, maybe; things are still evolving.”

Indeed, he could scarcely believe how quickly things had developed. A man had pointed a gun at him only a moment ago, and he still felt a little dazed. “Bring me the wounded,” said Combeferre. “On both sides. Is there a place that I can work?”

There was a squeeze of Combeferre’s shoulder, and then Enjolras turned away. “Yes. We’ve use of the first and fifth floor of that building, there.” He pointed. Combeferre spotted a man with a rifle in the window of the fifth floor. “Please tell me if there is anything I may do for you.”

Over the course of the next hour or so, Combeferre cleared tables, set out his supplies, requisitioned a few blankets, until he had something of a rudimentary field hospital. Then he took a seat, carefully loading his rifle and counting his cartridges. He frowned. The rifle made a poor physician’s tool. To shoot a man and then attempt to heal him of the injury he himself had inflicted—was that to be his task today? _First, do no harm_. He set the weapon down in disgust.

At this moment, Enjolras made his presence known, taking the seat beside him and touching his hand to his forearm. “Friend,” he said, and Combeferre responded to this as if it were his own name, “you are troubled.”

“Does this surprise you?”

A shake of Enjolras’s head. “I wanted to say, it is not necessary for you to fight, if you find it counter to your nature.”

“Would you doubt my faith, if I didn’t?”

Enjolras shook his head again, and his hand found Combeferre’s.

As he considered this, he leaned slightly to the side, so that their shoulders touched. “I might, though.”

There was silence between them for a little while. When Enjolras finally spoke, his voice was gentler. “If the world were just, you would not face this decision.”

Combeferre hummed in agreement. “Neither would you.” Enjolras looked surprised, pensive, but this seemed naturally true to Combeferre. It was not more just that Enjolras should have to fight—not Enjolras, who loved mankind, who saw the potential in everyone. There was nothing in his nature that diminished the horror of ending a life. “I will keep my gun.”

Enjolras’s smile had an air of melancholy to it when he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “It will be an honor to fight at your side.” Just after he released Combeferre’s hand and stood, the first echoes of gunshots began in earnest. There was no mistaking this for a warning shot, though it was far enough off it was not an immediate threat either. “Sooner rather than later, it seems.”

After Enjolras left, Combeferre took enough time to gather up his cartridges and his weapon before following him out. Though Enjolras had claimed there was no leader, this was not quite true. The other men on the barricade looked to him almost as naturally as Combeferre himself did. Unaccountably, he felt a vague sense of jealousy.

Seeing him now, radiant in the sunset, issuing battle orders and directing the others in their positioning, Combeferre had to remind himself that Enjolras was not a veteran of the Empire, but a man scarcely half a dozen years into adulthood. His calm, unflinching demeanor revealed no sign of inexperience or hesitation.

And then Enjolras was addressing him in that same way, no longer as friend but as captain. “Combeferre, to the far left. There is a good position there for a left-handed man.” He pointed. It was true; Combeferre obeyed, set himself up on the barricade, but his gaze remained fixed on Enjolras.

It was not, by any means, that he had never seen him this way, naturally in command. It was perhaps that very familiarity—that Enjolras gave orders on the barricade in the same way he divided tasks in their café—that left it feeling so strange. Which was it that resembled the other?

Their eyes met only once more before the army arrived. Not many of them, Combeferre noted; they must not have been fully deployed yet. A token resistance, then, a message that they would not be permitted to take the capital unopposed? Unnecessary bloodshed.

“ _Qui vive ?_ ”

“ _Vive le roi !_ ”

Then, nothing. Enjolras did not give the order to fire, nor did anyone else. There was an awkward reluctance on both sides which lasted an excruciating half-minute before someone further along the street, in one of the houses above the soldiers, opened the window and tossed something—a flower pot?—on the heads of the soldiers below. It was a woman, crying something which Combeferre was not able to understand, because at the same time a man from the right side of the barricade discharged his weapon, and all was chaos. A cacophony of shots rang out, the street filled almost immediately with smoke; the soldiers were replying, the insurgents answering again, but Combeferre could see nothing. Were any of them shooting at men, or only shadows?

“Cease your fire!” It was Enjolras’s voice. He knew that voice to speak only as loud as he needed to be, quiet enough to demand attention—often, when they were together, barely more than a whisper. He did not know how that voice could be large enough to fill the street, to silence bullets, but it was, effortlessly. There were scattered shots from the other side, but on the barricade all grew still. Combeferre had not fired his weapon to begin with. “Citizens, they are counting on you running out of powder. There are not enough of them to take the barricade and they know it. Do not play into the enemy’s hands.”

A general murmuring. A few moments later, the soldiers ceased shooting at all, but they did not approach either. Enjolras had it right.

“Rest, but stay vigilant.”

Combeferre set his gun down, however. “Are there any injured?”

“I am.” The voice belonged to a man who had taken position around the center of the barricade. When Combeferre came to see, his sleeve was red with blood.

Once he’d taken him indoors, Combeferre brought an oil lamp for a better light. The man was able to remove his shirt, and did so, but he’d taken a bullet in the upper arm and was bleeding badly, but not so badly that Combeferre feared his death. He applied a Petit tourniquet in order to slow the flow of blood, bound the wound tightly with a bandage, and applied pressure, removing the tourniquet after a short time. After he stopped bleeding, Combeferre set about fashioning him a sling.

His patient pulled the arm away in protest. “If you wrap my arm like that, Doctor, I won’t be able to fight.”

“That’s true.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I won’t be taken out of commission before the real fight begins, I want to be useful.”

“You will have to content yourself with making cartridges.”

A snort. “I can’t make cartridges with my arm in a sling, either.”

This was evident, but Combeferre gave him a look of displeasure. “At least let me do this, and you rest, and you will remove it when the fighting begins again.” At last this was assented to, and he finished tying the sling. “Off you go, then.”

It wasn’t until after he had gone that Enjolras entered with Combeferre’s rifle, which he set carefully down against the wall. He did not say anything, but leaned against the wall himself, looking over at Combeferre. It was not possible to hold intense, silent eye contact with him for long, but it became clear that Enjolras did not feel inclined to speak first. “You think they will attack later?” he asked, finding a seat.

Belatedly, Enjolras came to sit beside him. “Not tonight, I think; not seriously. They don’t have enough men, and we are not in a position that is of immediate concern. They made their effort. We did not fall for it. Not entirely, anyway.” He grimaced a little, and Combeferre read into that his regret at the powder they had wasted. “It is good they are hesitant to waste lives. They are waiting for a larger unit to be deployed. But it is almost dark now, and we have taken out the lanterns along the streets here. I think they will want to see what they are doing when they attack.”

“But in the morning, they will have reinforcements, and no reason to hesitate.” Combeferre did not raise his tone, but this was more a question than a statement.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, and his hand found Combeferre’s arm again. “But we will have still greater reinforcements.” He was sure of it. How could Combeferre doubt in the face of that?

He nodded. “I will expect to have more work than this tomorrow all the same.”

“True.” Enjolras squeezed his arm, turned it over to look at his palm. “Poor Combeferre. You did not even fire a shot, but you are the only one of us whose hands are bloodied today.”

Again, they fell into a silence. Enjolras did not remove his hand from Combeferre’s arm; Combeferre did not want him to.

They heard laughter from outside, and Combeferre lifted his head. “Will you sleep here tonight?” He looked back at Enjolras and did not avoid eye contact this time.

“I will stay here. Sleep? Perhaps and perhaps not.” The unspoken question was contained within Enjolras’s gaze.

“Yes,” he said, “of course, I am with you.” Combeferre cleared his throat. “Do you think this could really be…?”

In answer, Enjolras smiled. This was enough.

When night fell, it was darker than Combeferre remembered ever seeing any street in Paris. Enjolras had been right, again. There were scattered shots fired here and there from other streets, other barricades, but no continual bombardment, and all was tranquil on the rue de la Monnaie. Many of the insurgents had gone inside, to the fifth floor or on the makeshift hospital beds, to sleep. Others had gone home, swearing to return in the morning.

Combeferre did neither. He found a spot on the ground before the barricade itself, paving stones piled neatly, beside Enjolras, who had taken off his apron at last, rolled it up and placed it between his head and the wall of one of the buildings. He was sitting at rest, eyes closed, but not asleep. Combeferre looked up at the stars and wondered.

If there were a god, what would he think of them? Were they his allies in some grand metaphysical struggle against evil? Was their battle a meaningful one to him? Or was this life only a prelude to the next? Did he think of them at all? Was he capable of thought? He turned again to look at Enjolras and wished that Jean Prouvaire were with him.

“Do you want my coat?” he asked, already in the process of removing it. Enjolras’s apron could not provide much padding for his head.

Enjolras’s eyes blinked open. “Hm? Oh. Thank you.” And, instead of placing it behind his head, Enjolras draped it loosely around himself. Combeferre smiled, fond, and Enjolras gave him an affectionate look in return. “You should rest, if you can. You will serve us better.”

“I will try.” He inched closer. They were not touching when Combeferre fell asleep, but he had his hand on the sleeve of his coat, and Enjolras sat curled slightly in his direction. He woke once to see Enjolras still awake, but having spread the coat over both of them. A second time, Enjolras had dozed off, head tilted back, in a position that surely would have been too uncomfortable for Combeferre to sleep in. He shifted closer, laying his head against Enjolras’s chest. The sound of his breathing and his slow, steady pulse (Combeferre counted 41 beats per minute) soothed Combeferre, and he did not wake again until morning.


	2. 28 July 1830

When he opened his eyes, Enjolras was crouching above Combeferre with his hand on his shoulder. “Come—you can’t sleep any more, the city is waking up.” He took his hand and pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself awake while Enjolras helped him into the coat he had taken off the night before.

He could hear the city stirring, as Enjolras had said. There was shouting in the next street over: _Down with the aristocracy! To the barricades! Arm yourselves, citizens!_ A contingent of men dressed in the National Guard uniform arrived at the barricade in bright spirits sometime after 7 in the morning. One particularly excitable man declared, “Charles X dismissed the National Guard; so, the National Guard will dismiss Charles X.” This was met with a general cheer.

Their untroubled joy did not last long, however. The fighting resumed shortly after 8:00. It was not Enjolras who commanded the barricade that day, but a captain of the newly arrived National Guard. Enjolras surrendered his authority without word, without complaint, without even any official acknowledgement. He only went to the fifth floor of their building to take a position as a sniper, and Combeferre did not see him for some time.

This time he did fire a couple shots, but it seemed hardly more than five minutes before Combeferre had put down his gun, rolled up his sleeves, and set himself to the grisly art of medicine. Not more than half an hour, surely, before one of the men he had been treating bled out in front of him. Combeferre had stitched wounds before, but traumatic injuries such as these were very uncommon; more often he saw cases of illness, malnutrition, even poisoning. Very quickly he felt as if he were drowning. There was no time to feel the death of one man before another was put in front of him.

He lost track of time almost immediately. Therefore, he had no idea how long had passed before he received any assistance. When he did, it came in the form of one of the National Guardsmen, who had been in the army once and had some training as a medic; he relieved Combeferre from the care of those who were almost certainly dying and let him attend to those he might have some chance of saving.

When the fighting paused, his work only increased. The steady supply of their own injured was augmented by the addition of the wounded soldiers left behind in the retreat of the army. One man had his jaw blown off, but he was still alive. Combeferre did not attempt to mend him himself—he was one of those who was almost certainly dying—but those wild eyes bore into his own and his face would, he thought, remain in his mind forever.

Just when he felt he had the situation under control, Combeferre saw Enjolras again, watching him intently but keeping his space in order to let him work.

“Yes?”

Enjolras approached, removed Combeferre’s glasses, which he had smeared with a bit of blood, and cleaned them on the pristine white of his sleeve. “We are moving; we are advancing towards the Hotel de Ville.” He replaced the glasses. “I need you there. What shall we do about…?” He waved his hand toward the injured, and the dead. Combeferre swallowed.

“Is everyone leaving?”

“Not all.  We will leave a few to hold the barricade.”

“If some of the Guard will stay, including the medic, I will consent to come with you.”

So it happened. Combeferre packed up his necessities, noting that he was now very low on bandages indeed, and followed at the side of Enjolras, his bag on his shoulder and his rifle in hand. The path to the Hotel de Ville, through narrow streets, was far from clear. There were other barricades set up along the way, some of which received them with enthusiasm and others with some desperation.

They did not stay anywhere long enough to really engage in entrenched combat, but there were scattered little battles along the way where the army was attempting to clear the barricades. Combeferre fired, saw a man fall, had the instinct to go after him, was held back by Enjolras, and realized only belatedly that of course his help would not be accepted. They pressed onward, making for the river in order to avoid the Saint-Jacques tower, open ground where the army had the advantage.

The scene before the Hotel de Ville was more than Combeferre could have imagined. The besieged army at the doors of the building, the barricades being hastily thrown up—more a cover to fire behind than a way to block off the street, for the square was open in front of them. The flags, the screaming, the gunfire, the smoke, the drums, the dying, the dead, the living, the energy. All this in the city he had lived in for years now, a city that had been tranquil only the day before. He had, of course, imagined what the revolution had been and would be like, but see it before him now was beyond comprehension. Only the impulse to follow Enjolras ensured he did not simply stop, dumbstruck, and Enjolras paused himself until the spell was broken by a familiar, booming voice.

“ _Holà_ , Enjolras!” It was Bahorel, boldly carrying a magnificent flag that matched his striking red waistcoat. “How excellent you’ve finally joined us!” They surged forward, then, under covering fire from his barricade; when they were close enough, Bahorel gripped him in an exuberant embrace.

“Where are we most needed? You’ve enough men here.” That was Enjolras, again at his side.

“Yes. The men are not the problem, the positioning is.” He pointed toward the south end of the square. “We’re weak, on that side. Another barricade to reinforce ours and we should control the field, have them surrounded.”

Enjolras nodded. “Then, while they engage the army here—”

“We need bold men to build up the barricade, yes. There are enough paving stones here to have a good start of it.”

The captain of their contingent of National Guards remained to direct the firing. Bahorel, Enjolras, and several other men, most of whom Combeferre did not recognize, went to take the position. “You’re a good fellow, Combeferre.” This was Bahorel, again, clapping a hand roughly on his back in a gesture that was either meant to be teasing or reassuring. “I’m glad you’re with us.”

But where else could he be?

The foundation of their barricade was established with a speed Combeferre would not have thought possible. Combeferre found himself in a line of men passing along building material, while Enjolras, Bahorel, and another section of men took cover, remaining at the front in order to fend off the army. Things went wrong very quickly.

A group of soldiers arrived to reinforce the defenders of the Hotel de Ville, coming from the direction of the Bastille. Recognizing, just as the insurgents had, the strategic importance of their position, their commander directed his men to clear the barricade before it could be completed; they fired once and then charged, bayonets affixed. When the soldiers began to come over the top, most of the insurgents were still scrambling for their weapons, leaving their first line of defenders vulnerable.

One of the soldiers came directly for Enjolras, who fired, felling him just at the crest of the barricade. This meant his carbine was not charged when a second took his place and impaled Enjolras with his bayonet.

Combeferre opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His hands shook as he held his rifle, thinking only that he must do something, but he could not find a clear shot; to fire now would risk hitting Enjolras as well. The single second of this moment was the most excruciating of his life.

Enjolras did not fall. Combeferre saw him seize the rifle from the soldier’s hand, pull the weapon out of his own body, knock him back with the back end and then run him through the heart with his own bayonet. Combeferre could not move.

While paralyzed, he watched Enjolras bend, fearing that he had summoned the last of his strength, only to watch him grasp a pistol from the waistband of the man he had just killed, turn, and fire; a man fell to the ground beside Combeferre that he had not even noticed, but the realization that Enjolras had just saved his life felt muffled, somehow. He staggered forward. “Enjolras, let me—”

“No.” Enjolras’s face was a terrifying mask, and his voice was cold. Combeferre did not dare to disagree. It was the first time, he thought, that he had ever felt truly frightened of his friend. Enjolras turned his head to address the men. “Fall back! Retreat!” And, as he came to the side of Combeferre, yanking him into action by the arm: “Give me your rifle, you are not using it.”

The weapon he had been so reluctant to wield until only moments ago now felt precious to him. The request seemed to steal the breath from his body, but Combeferre nodded and passed it to Enjolras. Did he think Combeferre had chosen not to fire? That he would not have acted in his defense if he could have?

Even unarmed as he now was, he could not leave Enjolras, who seemed to have his mind set on covering their retreat. They were saved by Bahorel. “I’ll have that one,” he said boldly, and Enjolras hesitated only a moment before Bahorel grabbed the weapon, brooking no argument. “You’ve had enough fun, let someone else have a turn.”

Enjolras was, apparently, still sensible after all; with a murmured word of thanks, he turned and ran. Combeferre followed at his side, but he cast a glance backwards and watched Bahorel knock a bayonet out of a soldier’s hand with an energetic kick, swinging his rifle like a baton in order to block another.

Once they were in a place of relative safety, behind the other barricade, Combeferre grasped Enjolras by the arm. He was beginning to look alarmingly pale despite their exertion. “Enjolras, please let me—” This time, rather than being interrupted, he cut himself off; Enjolras had nodded his approval right away, had already placed his arms and his weight on Combeferre’s shoulders. In short, he had transformed wholly from the man who moments ago had refused his assistance so sharply.

As though handling a box of glassware, Combeferre supported Enjolras under the arms and lowered him until he was sitting leaning up against the barricade. He very quickly undressed Enjolras in order to examine the wound; he’d been stabbed between his fifth and sixth rib on his right side and was bleeding profusely. He used Enjolras’s shirt as a crude dressing, applying some pressure to the wound. “You are surely in a great deal of pain,” he said, and Enjolras nodded, though he gave no outward sign of it.

Combeferre had never treated a bayonet wound before and found the prospect of learning on Enjolras to be nauseating. “You!” he called at the nearest man, his voice taking on a commanding timbre he had not known he possessed. “Citizen—yes, you—hold this for me.” The man he’d directed appeared to hesitate, and Combeferre felt his jaw tighten. But evidently the man—boy, really, he realized once he approached—found him formidable enough to overcome his reluctance.

“It’s Danis,” the boy muttered, but Combeferre hardly acknowledged this, only directing him to hold the shirt against Enjolras’s chest. He opened his surgery kit, preparing his suturing needle and thread, and found that his hands were shaking. He swore.

Enjolras, whose wary eyes had not left Combeferre since he’d sat him down, lifted his hand and touched Combeferre lightly, getting his attention. “Be calm. I am here.” And though that was precisely the problem, Combeferre felt himself paradoxically settled by these words. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and separated the comforting presence of his friend—the spirit—from the body before him now.

“Thank you, that is enough,” he said to Danis, who moved obediently away, looking relieved. “Go and find me some more bandages.” Once he was gone, Combeferre settled his attention on Enjolras, giving himself no time to lose his courage again; he focused instead on the task of making his stitches as neat as he could—that, at least, was something he had practiced before, and taking on the mindset of the student made the situation before him now feel less imminently horrifying.

Though Enjolras did not cry out while Combeferre attended to his injuries, he could hear his breathing grow louder, more rapid, and when he looked up again, he saw him grimacing with an expression of evident discomfort. He did not know how it was possible to remain so stoic under the circumstances. “I think you must have been lucky,” he said, for Enjolras could have very easily been pierced through the lung. “You are not having any difficulty breathing?”

“I am,” Enjolras answered, and his voice sounded so much weaker than it had when he had tried comforting Combeferre. Combeferre’s blood ran cold, but Enjolras shook his head. “Not that—I can breathe; it only hurts. It takes more work. But I promise that I will not stop, as long as any strength remains within me.”

A wave of emotion swelled in Combeferre—both immense fondness for Enjolras and terror at that prospect that he had not allowed himself to consider. “I will hold you to that.” He finished dressing the wound with the last of the bandages he already had on hand, and once Danis arrived with some fresh ones, he packed them safely in his bag. Enjolras had not quite stopped bleeding, and was looking rather pale, but Combeferre felt he had addressed the most immediate situation. Still, to have him here, he may be placed in further danger at any moment, and in any case Combeferre could hardly hear himself think with all the shouting and gunfire. “You are not safe here. Your condition is very precarious; will you consent to come away from the barricades?”

“Of course,” he said, with a nod for emphasis. “You have my faith, and I will agree with whatever you say is necessary. But I can no longer stand.” He said this as if it were a neutral fact; again, Enjolras’s calm demeanor helped to bring Combeferre’s into accord, to keep at bay the urge to panic.

“I will carry you.” Combeferre placed his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, feeling Enjolras’s hand follow to rest atop his own, but then he rose, looking around for a friendly face and alighting, again, on Bahorel, who was in the middle of an animated discussion with someone else, but who was unable to prevent himself from glancing frequently over at Enjolras. When Combeferre called his name, he turned and broke away from the other man apparently mid-sentence. “I need to take Enjolras away, to a safe place, but it must be close; he cannot travel far.”

Bahorel thought for only a moment. “I know a good fellow,” he said, “just on the other side of the Seine, who owes me something. But it is impossible to travel south; there is a pitched battle over the Pont d’Arcole, and I’m sure the entire island is full of people. No.” He pointed, north. “That building there, overlooking us—number 37. I know the man who lives on the fourth floor, and he is insufferable, but it may be that I can persuade him to help us, for Enjolras’s sake. Come.”

Before Bahorel could start directly off, Combeferre handed him his medical bag and carefully lifted Enjolras, one arm under his knee and the other around his back, as he might carry a child. He was not heavy, though he was a little bit of an awkward burden, being taller than Combeferre. Enjolras wrapped his left arm around Combeferre and leaned into his chest, closing his eyes. Combeferre could feel his heartbeat, no longer slow and strong as it had been the night before, but rather weak, rapid, uneven.

He quickened his pace, holding Enjolras as steady as he could while Bahorel guided them across the square, directing them to hold and take cover at some times, to hurry along at others, until they reached the door of the building, which was quite securely closed. Enjolras was making a noise of some distress and Combeferre was shaking while Bahorel pounded on the door with the back of his rifle.

The answer from inside came from a beleaguered-sounding porter. “It is not possible for me to permit your entry.”

Bahorel’s voice was booming. “Tell that bastard Dutheil that I wish to see him.”

Silence, for a minute or so. Combeferre shifted Enjolras in his arms, drawing him close enough that he could hear him breathe—unsettling, the pattern of it; comforting, the presence of it—and wondered if Bahorel had not doomed them by way of a careless insult.

Finally, a window opened on the fourth floor and a man leaned almost his entire body out of it. “Bahorel, you devil, leave me alone!” The man that Combeferre was looking at was pale, well-dressed, with dark hair and a severe face.

“Let these two in,” he answered, uncharacteristically serious.

“I’m not part of this; I told you not to involve me in your nonsense again.”

“If you do not let them in,” said Bahorel, and that he sounded almost calm was more frightening than his shouting, “when my friend here dies, I will hold you responsible before the man who stabbed him. And we have already killed that fellow.”

Combeferre clutched Enjolras the more tightly, his own heart pounding in his chest. “You have promised me,” he murmured to Enjolras, who only nodded in response, but who appeared earnest and present enough despite his evident weakness that it soothed him nonetheless.

Dutheil had not spoken again but seemed to be wavering. Bahorel pressed ahead. “He is only a doctor, a pacifist, with an injured man; even you can have no objection to this.”

Combeferre fought the impulse to object strongly to being categorized as a ‘pacifist’, and at the same time wondered why it should bother him. He was wise to do so, for though Dutheil slammed his window shut, the porter returned in a moment and this time they were permitted entry. “Bahorel,” said Combeferre, meeting his gaze levelly. “Come by later and return the rifle you are borrowing from me.” After speaking thus, he wasted no more time in carrying Enjolras inside.

Dutheil, however sour-tempered he was, decided to keep his ire to himself when he saw the state that Enjolras was in, but nevertheless left to take shelter with one of his own neighbors, so as not to be taken for one of the insurgents ‘when the soldiers manage to restore order’.

Only after Combeferre had Enjolras laid out on a bed did he realize how tiring it had been to carry him even that distance. Yet before he had time to catch his breath, Enjolras was reaching weakly for him and murmuring his name.

“Yes?”

Enjolras grasped his hand and placed it against his chest, which was badly swollen. “Here, it’s—I can’t—It hurts.” His words were chopped, strangled. When he looked closely, he noted a bluish color to Enjolras’s lips. He palpated the swelling in Enjolras’s abdomen, noted the way he squeezed his eyes shut, and felt a sinking feeling in his own breast.

Then he drew out his scalpel. “It is hard to breathe,” he said, and Enjolras nodded. Combeferre lay his hand against Enjolras’s chest, where it swelled the most, and pressed the scalpel to his flesh, opening his chest. Now in the relative quiet of the bedroom, he could hear a distinct sound of air rushing from the wound he had just made, but Enjolras lay his head back and seemed to become more comfortable almost immediately. He remained pale, but he no longer looked blue.

“That is better,” Enjolras murmured, while Combeferre set himself the task of dressing his injuries, stopping his chest from bleeding but leaving the wound open so that he might breathe. His eyes closed, and Combeferre watched the rise and fall of Enjolras’s chest for a few moments until he was confident that his breath was normal, and that the immediate danger had passed.

Combeferre was busy for the next while, though he could not mark how much time precisely had passed. He cut sheets and sewed them into bandages, writing a note that promised recompense to their owner. When that was accomplished, he washed the blood, dirt and gunpowder from Enjolras’s body, checking his breath and heartbeat every minute or so. At last he cleaned his own hands and arms up to his wrists, leaving his palms cleaned pale again.

Looking at Enjolras, at the way his head had fallen to the side, his hair covering part of his face, Combeferre could not help but think how closely he resembled many of the men who had died under his care that day—how little difference there was between life and death under these circumstances. He turned away, burying his face in his hands.

He thought about the man earlier that he had fired upon, wondered if he had died, or if someone else had managed to save him. Had it been necessary to shoot, then? Was it not absurd to hope for the well-being of someone he himself had possibly killed? Would the man who had stabbed Enjolras have felt the same way if he had lived to have a moment of regret?

But then, if Combeferre did regret it, he found that he regretted more the shot he had not taken than the one he had. Enjolras had noted a man threatening Combeferre and had fired on him even after sustaining an injury. But Enjolras may yet perish, in part due to Combeferre’s inability to protect him in turn.

To let himself imagine the possibility now filled him with horror. Somehow he had not noticed until now how entirely indispensable Enjolras had become to him. The thought of a life without him, even a life under the Republic, felt hollow. To live without the inspiration, the courage, the love that Enjolras had given to him was something beyond comprehension. Even the thought of losing Enjolras’s little smile wounded him in an almost physical sense. He shuddered, lowered his hands, took a deep breath.

“Do you fear for me or for France this way?” Enjolras’s voice broke the stillness Combeferre had fallen into.

When he looked back, Enjolras’s dimmed blue eyes were open again and watching him. Combeferre felt suddenly self-conscious. “For you,” he said. “I want the Republic as much as you do, Enjolras, but she is not lying in front of me, close to death.”

“But neither am I.” Combeferre frowned, but Enjolras was silent for a few moments, holding his gaze, before he continued. “This will not kill me.” Enjolras sounded less like he was willing himself not to die and more as if he truly somehow knew that he would live. “I can think of no place I should rather die than in the shadow of liberty, one of many of her defenders, and held securely in your arms. If my soul wished to leave, I might find it difficult to command it to stay.” He reached out, and Combeferre took Enjolras’s hand to spare him even that little movement. “But I feel no such pull towards the infinite. My soul is grounded here, in this body. In this room. In this touch.” And he squeezed Combeferre’s hand.

“I will tell you why,” he continued. “It is because my soul is tied to the Republic. And while I have often gazed at the infinite as though I might find her there, now I feel that she is far closer to me here, on earth.” Enjolras’s smile was small, but vast. “I can see that you are worried to hear me speak this way, but only look into my eyes and see that I am sensible, that I know what I say, that you may rely on my words.”

Combeferre looked at Enjolras, who looked directly back. He did not have that abstracted look on his face the way he often did when discussing the Republic; instead, he was present in the moment, he held his gaze firmly and easily. It was as if he were speaking, instead, of something plain to see in the room with them.

“The Republic has shed a little blood. So have I. But I am more anxious to see the result of this for her than for me. You have saved me, I know. What remains in question is whether or not we have saved her.”

At that moment, there was a deep, full sound that reached them from outside-- a profound hum that felt as if it penetrated through Combeferre’s body, interspersed with the rich ringing of a heavy bell. Almost more noticeable was the sudden quiet from outside, a sudden cessation of gunfire and shouting.

Enjolras struggled to sit up. “What is that?”

“It’s the Notre Dame,” said Combeferre, though he felt no less puzzled, as he opened the window and leaned out to look across the square. Through the haze of smoke from the combat, across the river Seine, he could see the tall church towers. And, as the smoke cleared slightly, he made out the tricolor waving at the top of them.

The resonance of the bourdon still filled him, a powerful feeling that spread from Combeferre’s chest to his head, through his limbs, that his body attuned itself to even more than the beating of his own heart. He perceived suddenly that he had begun to weep, and when he managed to look back at Enjolras, he noticed the same force of emotion had enraptured Enjolras; though his eyes were dry, Combeferre thought that he looked as if he were witnessing God.

“I didn’t realize…” Combeferre failed to form his thoughts into words. The fighting in the streets, the way he had felt caught up in a struggle with thousands of other people, the power of life and death—all of this paled, somehow, before the immense feeling that this ideal which they had spoken of, had hoped and dreamed and killed and would die for, was now looking directly back at them from the tower of Notre Dame, was now ringing through their bodies from its church bell, had arrested not only Combeferre, not only Enjolras, but an entire city—a nation—at once.

Cries of _victory!_ erupted from outside the window, and Combeferre staggered into bed to embrace Enjolras. “ _Vive la République!_ ” shouted someone from the square.

Enjolras clutched Combeferre close and whispered, “Yes, she lives.”


End file.
